


Time and Again

by allouette



Category: Chicago Med
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 18:38:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6531460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allouette/pseuds/allouette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Very little is said between leaving the elevator and leaving the hospital. Halstead’s apartment is closer, and Connor follows him there, thinks the sooner they get this over with, the sooner his pulse can finally return to normal. The sooner everything can return to normal. </p><p>Or my take on what happens between the elevator scene and the bar scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time and Again

**Author's Note:**

> So, writing for a new fandom is very weird. Hello. This has no redeeming qualities whatsoever, I'm sorry. But I had to, they made me, it could not be helped.

He can blame it all on the adrenaline. It’s the rush, the heat of the moment that makes him take that extra step forward, to press in just a little bit closer, a little bit harder. 

When all has gone still in that elevator and all that’s left is their harsh breathing, that should signal the end. Game over. It isn't, though, Connor doesn’t let it end, not for that one extra _press_ , all body heat and pounding hearts through coats and thin scrubs.

He has no idea what he’s expecting to happen, what he thinks Halstead might do. Turn around a deck him, maybe. Would serve him right. But Connor feels the instant he freezes for just a second, his breath caught in his throat because no one could miss the intent behind such a move, especially not someone as smart as Will.

Although Will’s questioning intelligence is the reason they’re in this elevator in the first place, so. Connor has room to wonder.

And then they separate just as smoothly, Connor stepping back and away, his pulse still ringing in his ears as he watches, waiting.

It's like time has stopped for them, ceased to tick forward the second he pressed the emergency stop button. Stop the elevator, stop time. Stop everything that doesn't exist inside this little space. It is this train of thought that makes it impossible for Connor to worry about how long they have been standing here, suspended in motion.

Halstead doesn’t look at him for a long moment, and when he does, it’s too quick for Connor to really get a read on him. He watches Will lick his lips, eyes the bob of his throat as he swallows hard. When he looks back this time, it’s right there in his eyes, simmering beneath the surface. Connor can feel it in the weight of that dark gaze alone and it’s enough to make him reach over, smack the button on the wall to get the elevator moving again.

*** 

Very little is said between leaving the elevator and leaving the hospital. Halstead’s apartment is closer, and Connor follows him there, thinks the sooner they get this over with, the sooner his pulse can finally return to normal. The sooner everything can return to normal. 

If that will even be possible after tonight. He highly doubts it, though, once they cross this line.

Not that he isn’t going to enjoy this. It’s been a back and forth battle between wanting to punch Will or fuck him ever since he proudly announced he was the senior resident in their ER, and right now, all signs point to fuck. 

But he still doesn’t really know what Will is thinking, or what is even going to happen, exactly, and his blood pressure has been high since the second he ran into the elevator and he’d like that to go down a little bit, too. He loses Will at a red light and it grates on his nerves a little, and by the time he makes it to the apartment, those are shot as well. Just another thing to add to the list of _buts_ , and if he wasn’t so sure of what he wants right now, he’d turn right around, say fuck it, and walk away.

His fist barely touches the door before it’s swinging open, beckoning him inside. Will looks restless where he stands shifting his weight, his arms crossed over his chest. Connor takes the time to shut and lock the door behind him, shrug out of his coat, wonders idly if it’s the way he watches Will from across the room that’s making him so uneasy, or just the situation as a whole. 

Probably a mixture of both.

“Drink?” Will asks, for no other reason than to break the silence.

Connor shakes his head, says, “no, I’m good for now,” as he steps further into the apartment.

Halstead looks ready to bolt at the first opportunity, his eyes shifting, never settling. Maybe he’s just nervous or having second thoughts or maybe he never really wanted this at all. Whatever it is, Connor can’t be sure, but like before, he presses forward, headstrong and determined, closes a little bit more of the distance between them.

“Will.”

The shifting stops. Halstead looks at him head on, and Connor can see it again, that same intensity in his eyes. He’s not having second thoughts at all if that look is anything to go by.

“If you don’t want this to happen...” Connor says anyway, just to be absolutely sure.

But then Will is the one striding forward, closing what’s left of the gap between them and pushing still until Connor finds himself pressed back against the wall this time, Will’s fists curled tight in the front of his scrub top. For a split second, he thinks hitting is back on the table, but no, that’s hunger burning there in Will’s eyes, he’s sure of it. Now it’s his turn to bring one of his hands up, curls it around the back of Will’s neck; this isn’t the gentle touch it could be, his fingers digging into tense muscle, warm flesh, and when their mouths finally collide, it’s the kind of first kiss that wet dreams are made of.

Connor has never really put thoughts of _kissing_ and _Halstead_ together before, didn’t exactly care to, but now. Fuck, now he’s going to have a hard time not thinking about it because Will is toeing the line of being almost too aggressive with his assault on Connor's mouth, but all it is doing is sending a rush of blood straight down to Connor’s dick. 

Apparently he is perfectly okay with it. 

What he’s not okay with is feeling like he’s not in control here, and he shoves at Will’s shoulder, uses the weight of his body and forward momentum to quickly switch their positions. He feels Will push back with a slash of teeth, and all it takes is the full press of Connor’s body from chest to groin to drain the fight right out of him. He swallows Will's gasp because thin scrub pants do absolutely nothing to conceal growing arousal, erections meeting between the press of their bodies as Connor’s hands drop to Will’s hips, giving him the first sweet taste of friction with one barely there rock of his hips.

There’s an obvious _shit-this-is-really-happening_ moment when Will lets out a curse, his head thumping back against the wall. He clutches at Connor’s sides, his shoulders, unsure of where he wants to let his hands rest. That’s not a problem for Connor, his grip on Will’s hips tightening; this isn’t really what he had in mind, a quick dry hump against the wall like they don’t have time to be doing this, like they have some place else to be, but he’ll take this to get first time jitters out of the way.

He’s also a little determined to make this the best encounter of this particular kind Halstead could ever possibly dream of having. For his own satisfaction. Ego might have something to do with it, too. He’s not fucking proud to admit it.

It’s not like bumping and grinding against a wall leaves much room for finesse, but Connor does the best he can, leaves room for the imagination to take hold of this and carry it further. He wants Halstead to think that if he can move against him this way right here, like this now, what would it be like in a bed? What would the real thing be like? No clothes, sweat, lube, skin on skin and so _hot_ — Mind. Fucking. Blowing. That’s what.

Plant the seed, let it grow.

Connor has to resist the temptation to suck a mark onto Halstead’s neck, sink his teeth in there, pressing his face against the heated skin instead and thinking about how badly he wants to spread Will out on the couch that’s just across the room, how much better this could be horizontally without the clothes between them. He thinks about how he wants to get Will into his bed, up on his hands and knees, how he’d so gladly fuck him stupid if that’s the mentality Will is going for these days. 

The thought alone is enough to make Connor’s toes curl, his balls ache, and he jerks at the string on the front of Will’s scrubs until they come untied. He licks a broad stripe along one palm before his hand slips down the front of Will’s pants, no longer snug around his hips, down beneath the waistband of his underwear to wrap sure fingers around his cock. The sound it earns him is a thing of beauty, deep and heartfelt where it’s torn from Will’s throat, and Connor tips his head back, has to get a look at the picture Will makes right now – eyes closed and cheeks flushed, his hair wild and curling more than Connor has ever seen it before, lips parted, bitten red and so inviting. 

It’s a temptation he can’t resist and Connor dives in for another kiss; all Will can do is groan into it as Connor’s hand moves along his cock, quick, steady strokes that have him bucking into Connor’s grip, eager for more. 

“You like that?” Connor asks, his mouth trailing from Will’s to along his jaw, making its way up to his ear. “You do, don’t you?”

“Connor,” Will says, practically choking on his name. It’s just a handjob to finish things off but Will can’t catch his breath, feels like he’s drowning, and with every twistjerk _squeeze_ of Connor’s hand, he sinks down deeper and deeper.

“C’mon,” Connor grunts, breath hot against Will’s ear, grinding himself against the hard muscle of Will’s thigh as his hand picks up speed. “Come on, Will, you’re there, I know you are—”

“Shut _up_ , fuck, just—” Will cuts himself off, tangling his fingers in Connor’s hair and hauling him in for a kiss, deep and filthy and lacking any sort of finesse whatsoever. It’s perfect, really, couldn’t possibly be better, and when Connor’s teeth sink just so into Will’s lower lip, that’s all it takes to send him over the edge. He comes over Connor’s fingers in a hot rush, and if Connor weren’t ten seconds away from coming in his own pants for the first time since he was a teenager, he would say it’s probably the hottest thing he has experienced in a really long time. 

Fuck it, it definitely is. Come in his pants be damned.

They’re slow to finally separate once they start to catch their breath, awkwardness starting to creep in, a little uncomfortable if only for the mess residing in their clothes. Connor excuses himself to the bathroom to clean up as much as he possibly can, loses his boxer briefs and puts his scrub pants back on. There’s still an air of disbelief that that really just happened, but he’s staring at the proof right there on the floor. 

He just had sex with Will. He wants to have better sex with Will. Fuck.

Without a second thought, Connor grabs his underwear and drops them into the laundry hamper tucked into the corner of the room. Perfect excuse to come back another time. He leaves the bathroom just in time to catch Will stripping out of his shirt, and they both freeze, staring each other down for a moment or two before Connor clears his throat.

“I could go for that drink now,” he says, and Will nods, letting his shirt fall to the floor. 

“I have a question.”

“Yeah?”

“So earlier, when I said that I know you don’t like me—”

Connor rolls his eyes, can’t even help it. He also doesn’t dignify that with a response other than to shake his head, and he can see the way Will smiles, that coy little smile of his that’s cute as fuck and he damn well knows it, too. Asshole.

It turns out that the only things Will has to drink in his apartment are a single beer, sour milk, and tap water. He says he’ll be better prepared next time as he goes to change his clothes, and it gives them both time to think about that, the concept of there being a _next time_. 

That they could and can and probably will do this again. 

Connor is grateful for the bag of clothes he keeps stashed in his car now that the two of them are heading out into public because there’s no way he’d set foot anywhere free balling in his debauched scrubs. He is a Rhodes, after all. They’re able to make themselves perfectly presentable; one look at them and you’d never know the events that just transpired, and sitting at the bar, they are both quiet, sipping their drinks in a comfortable silence.

There is a lot to digest here, and the prospect of next time hangs heavy in the air between them.


End file.
